Getting Back On Your Feet
by Razzaroo
Summary: In 1991, Iceland was the first to recognise Lithuania's independence. This is them, from those first months to the present.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N. More Lithuania! This is a sort of semi-sequel to Drowning Sorrows, but only very tentatively. Literally, there's a couple of references to Liet drinking and a line from Russia and that's it. This was written in response to a prompt on the kink meme, asking for something about Iceland and Lithuania since Iceland was the first to recognise Lithuania's independence after the fall of the Soviet Union.**

**If you spot any language/historical inaccuracies, feel free to let me know so I can fix them :)**

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><p><em>February 1991<em>

Lithuania can feel himself practically buzzing with nerves. He's freshly independent from the Soviet Union and he's going to receive a visitor from the West for the first time in decades. His boss (_his __**new **__boss, who is actually __**his **__and not one of Russia's) _has told him not to get too uptight about it; it's not a diplomatic visit, he's told, but a gesture of good will and support.

The knock on the door comes whilst Lithuania is mopping his floor. He freezes. In all honesty, he hadn't expected Iceland to be here so quickly; in all honesty, even he struggles with these apartment blocks (_Khrushchyovka, Russia calls them.) _He'd rather that this waited until he could get into a place that's not a relic from Khrushchev's era but he doesn't know how long that will be.

He eyes the bottle of vodka he'd pinched from Russia before he goes to answer the door.

Iceland looks odd and out of place in this Soviet apartment block. His clothes and his easy, relaxed posture give away the fact that he's a foreigner; a bright, shiny new stranger from the long-elusive West.

"Litháen,"Iceland says, extending a hand.

"Islandija," Lithuania says in return. Iceland's hand is smaller than he expected and much warmer too, despite the chill of the winter outside.

Iceland kicks the remains of snow off of his boots before he steps into Lithuania's apartment. Lithuania finds himself staring: jeans that he's certain were not bought on a black market; boots that he didn't have to wait in queues for hours for; a winter jacket and sweater that didn't have to be "released" into shops. There's an awkwardness between them that could be cut with a knife.

"You're looking OK," Iceland says, twirling a lock of his own hair between his thumb and forefinger.

Lithuania blinks, "Thank you. Did you think I wouldn't?" He immediately regrets asking.

The ghost of a smile slides across Iceland's face, "We don't really know what to expect from behind the Curtain."

"I see," a beat, "Would you like something to drink?"

Iceland scratches the side of his head, "If you have anything."

"I have coffee," Lithuania says, knowing full well that coffee is not the only thing he has to offer but Russia's warning rings in his head: _"You might want to sort out that little drinking problem if you want the West to take you seriously."_

He retreats into the kitchen after telling Iceland to sit wherever he wants. The excited, nervous buzz is still there, drowning out the slight embarrassment at the fact that the only coffee he can offer is instant stuff that he'd bought from the valiutinė parduotuvė. As he boils the kettle, he can't keep him from grinning; someone from the West had come to see _him_, to recognise _him. _

He stacks a couple of mugs onto a slightly battered tray, alongside the coffee pot, milk jug and tiny bowl of sugar. When he opens up properly to democracy and all the West has to offer, the first thing he's going buy is a new coffee set.

"Sorry that it's not that great," he says when he sets the tray down on the tiny table he's held on to since the 1920s, "I only have instant."

Iceland's looking at the Soviet icons that Lithuania still hasn't had time to remove, his lower lip between his teeth. Alongside an ancient picture of Brezhnev, Lithuania's hung his crucifix, out in the open for the first time in years. Lithuania feels his cheeks colour.

"Russia wanted them up," he rushes to explain as he pours out the coffee, else Iceland gets the wrong idea about Lithuania wanting independence, "I just haven't got them down yet."

"Right, OK," Iceland says, with no hint of scepticism in his voice, "Having friends over must have been fun."

"Well," Lithuania feels the heat in his cheeks spread slightly, "I didn't really invite friends much. Actually, I mostly lived with Russia; this wasn't a permanent house."

"Yeah, I lived with Denmark for a long time," Iceland says, adding milk and sugar to the cup that Lithuania offers him, "Not that Denmark's like Russia or anything. He's really annoying sometimes and he's kind of nuts but he's not bad."

As if he senses that he's going to ramble, Iceland suddenly goes quiet and busies himself with the coffee. If he notices Lithuania adding a splash of rum to his coffee, he doesn't mention anything. Lithuania can feel Brezhnev watching him from the wall and he has to resist the urge to stand and turn the portrait so it faces the wall; he's not going to let some long dead Soviet judge him now.

For a long moment, the two of them are silent. Iceland sits with one knee hugged to his chest, with his silvery blond hair falling into his eyes. The last time Lithuania had seen him properly, he'd been a preteen who lurked in Denmark's shadow; now, he was a lanky teenager, with a striking resemblance to Norway. He'd heard about Iceland of course, when Russia came back in 1986, venting about America and how Denmark had raised a Nation who looked as if he'd never seen a smile in his life.

"I don't know when we'll be able to get diplomatic relations going," Iceland pipes up suddenly, glaring down into his coffee mug as if it could discern the future, "But, as far as I'm concerned, Lithuania's independent. So if anyone says anything, you know, you're not on your own." He looks up at that ghost smile appears again, "You can use my volcanoes, if you like."

Lithuania grins back, "I don't think throwing people into volcanoes will help much. But thanks for the offer."

He takes a long drink from his own mug before the smile slides form his face and his expression turns serious, "In all seriousness, though, thank you." Iceland raises an eyebrow, "For recognising my independence."

Iceland shrugs, "You don't have to say thanks."

"But I want to," Lithuania says, "It means a lot. Maybe more than you realise."

Iceland considers him for a while, "Maybe. Like I said, Denmark's not Russia."

The awkwardness between them has melted away mostly, thawed by drinks and a proper conversation. The warm glow hasn't left Lithuania's chest, though Iceland remains mostly indiscernible; Denmark and Finland are the only Nordics who Lithuania wouldn't call stoic.

"Islandija," he says, picking up the rum bottle and adding a little more to his mug, "What can you tell me about the West?"

Iceland snorts, "Well, I'll start by saying that they're all crazy."


	2. Chapter 2

_May 2004_

"You didn't go drinking last night, did you?"

Lithuania looks up. He hopes that he doesn't look awful; he'd come in late last night after spending the evening with Poland, hopping from bar to bar. His head is clear, unlike Poland.

"Nothing alcoholic," he says, with a sheepish smile, "Poland did, though."

Iceland nods, though Lithuania can't see his eyes behind his sunglasses. They're at a café in Brussels, sitting in the late spring sunlight. Iceland's still wearing long sleeves, despite the warmth; he says it's because he burns easily, saying that the continent needs to adopt his climate.

"Good," he says, "So, how's it feel to be part of the big, bad European Union?"

Lithuania blinked, "You think it's bad?"

"Not really," Iceland says, "Just not my thing."

"Ah, OK," Lithuania swirls the ice in his glass and smiles, "It feels good to be part of the big, bad European Union."

"A little exclusive club, just for Europe."

"Yeah, I might have told America that it was a cover up for a secret society," Lithuania says, rubbing his chin, "Not sure how seriously he took me."

"He's known about it long enough to take a joke," Iceland says, "Though if anything shifty does happen, you'll tell me, já?"

"Of course. But why not just ask the other Nordics?"

"Because then they'd think I'm taking interest in the EU and think I want to join," Iceland wrinkles his nose, "No offence, but I'm already part of an elite super group; I'll keep my toes out of this one."

Lithuania gets the creeping feeling that Iceland is mixing up his English phrases but, with his own proficiency in English not quite up to scratch, he's not going to comment. He's going to have to get together with America again to practice; he's hardly about to approach England, considering how prickly the island nation is. He's offered to try Icelandic but Iceland balks slightly at the idea of Lithuania trying to wrap his tongue around his language when they have wobbly English in common.

"You gonna try and go Schengen?" Iceland asks, finishing off his glass of lemonade.

"I think I have to," Lithuania frowns slightly, "I think only England can opt out. You're part of it, aren't you?"

"Mmhmm. _Not _that it's easy to get to Iceland anyway, since I'm an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. But hey, might as well make it easier."

Iceland stands up and picks up his satchel from where he'd left it at his feet, "I'll pay; I'm guessing you're a little broke after trying every one of Belgium's bars last night."

Lithuania cocks his eyebrow, "I did not try every bar." He sniffs, "I didn't have time."

"I'll still pay," Iceland says, fishing his wallet out and flipping it open, "And then you can tell me all about your new clubhouse." He starts to count off on his fingers, "Your favourite spot to sit, the best food they serve in the canteen. Denmark says not to touch the egg salad, by the way; just some advice."

Lithuania laughs, "Yeah? Why's that?"

"He says it gives you the runs."

"Experience?"

"You bet."

With the bill paid, Iceland wanders along Belgian streets, looking almost obnoxiously adolescent. He clearly has no idea where he's going and neither does Lithuania, in all honesty, but both of them are reluctant to ask for any directions, embarrassed by thick accents and clunky pronunciations.

"You know my offer for the volcano still stands, right?" Iceland says, kicking an abandoned ball point pen into the gutter along the pavement.

Lithuania blinks, "I didn't think you remembered saying that."

Iceland peers at him through his dark glasses, "I didn't think you remembered either, to be honest."

"Why would I need to throw someone into a volcano now, though?" Lithuania says, slightly confused. There's no Russia breathing down his neck now, or at least not as much, and no one to cast doubt on his legitimacy as an independent Nation.

"Some people can be…well, they can be asses," Iceland says, and the word sounds strange in his mouth. It's a word much more suited to Denmark than to the quiet, brooding Iceland, "And they might start saying stuff. So if they do, you can still throw them into a volcano."

There's a slight blush colouring his cheeks. Lithuania's smile returns, replacing his look of confusion for a moment.

"I can handle it," he says, "If anyone does, I can just brandish my membership certificate at them and say we're equals now."

"You get membership certificates?"

"I don't know. If not, I think we should."

"If you do, I might reconsider applying to join," Iceland says thoughtfully, "I need something to put on my wall."


	3. Chapter 3

_January 2009_

The world, Lithuania reflects as he approaches Iceland's door, probably isn't going to change much. Wars will happen, economies will rise and fall and Lithuania will always end up with the sense that just when something is starting to go right, it will all go horribly wrong again. He sighs and pulls his scarf away from his face as he raises his gloved hand to knock on the door.

He's come to Reykjavik as a friend, not as a Nation. Iceland had called him on New Year's Eve, asking for company that wasn't his brothers. He'd sounded so clogged up and miserable that Lithuania couldn't say no.

He hears Iceland coming to the door long before it opens; coughs and shuffling feet over a wooden floor.

"Please," Iceland says when he opens the door, his tone thick and irritated, "Don't say anything about how terrible I look. I know, OK?"

He lets Lithuania into his house and the first thing Lithuania notices is how warm it is; Iceland must have his heating on full blast. The second is the fact that Iceland is hunched underneath a quilt even whilst standing, looking utterly dishevelled. He's paler than usual with the flush of fever colouring his cheeks, his eyes bright and rimmed with red. Lithuania feels a twinge of sympathy.

"I won't say it," he says, stepping out his shoes to leave them on the doormat, "But I'll ask why you wanted me instead of your brother."

Iceland coughs somewhere in the folds of his quilt and retreats back into the living room before he answers, "I just don't want to have to deal with him. He can be really overbearing sometimes." He collapses onto the settee and with bright eyes, "Besides, haven't seen you in ages."

Lithuania carefully drags one of Iceland's armchairs closer and sits down, leaning on the arm of the settee and peering down at the other Nation, "How are you feeling?"

"Awful."

For a while, the two of them sit in silence, Iceland huddled in a lump on his settee and Lithuania attempting to smooth down the other's tousled hair, feeling for a fever as he did. Pushing pale hair away from Iceland's face, Lithuania notices the sticky tear tracks on Iceland's face.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, hiding his alarm. He's not used to seeing Iceland cry.

Iceland's hands emerge from the quilt to clutch at his head, which is clearly aching from his cold, "Everything's just gone wrong. And no matter what we do, it's just getting worse."

Lithuania stands and nudges for Iceland to sit up; he situates himself between Iceland and the arm of the settee. Iceland blinks at him with teary eyes. It reminds him of Latvia.

"Is that all?"

Iceland sniffs, and it sounds almost painful, "No." His face turns annoyed, "I'm getting all the blame for it. As if it's _my _fault that England's treating me like some kind of terrorist. He froze all my UK assets, you know." He huffs, "I should have fished all his cod when I had the chance."

"Ah, but then he'd be angry for two things," Lithuania muses, though he's not sure what cod has to do with anything.

It does nothing to lift Iceland's sour expression, "And my government's in the shits; my boss stepped down you know, so I'll have to have an early election."

"It does all look bleak."

Iceland turns his glare to Lithuania, "You know, this is the part where you're supposed to help me feel better."

"Oh," Lithuania hesitates, "Well…you have that loan, don't you? And the IMF said you're doing the right thing. That's good, _taip?" _He jumps slightly when Iceland leans against him but doesn't move away, "You asked Russia for help, didn't you?"

Iceland's quiet for a moment, "Not just Russia."

"You know, if he does," Lithuania says slowly, masking his worry behind a thin veil of calm, "It won't be because he really wants to help, right? Russia doesn't do things just because he feels like being nice."

"Yeah, I know," Iceland says softly, "Norway told me the same thing."

He sounds utterly miserable. Lithuania sighs. He hopes he doesn't come across as overbearing but he knows Russia well. He's not entirely keen on the idea of Iceland becoming Russia's shiny new prop in his little game of making friends. He can already hear the icy Nation now, parading his generosity in the faces of the others: "_See how well little Iceland is now? I didn't have to help him but I did! And you all said I could not be nice!"_ He shudders. It makes him uncomfortable how well he's committed Russia's voice to memory, especially the syrupy tone he uses when he's being "nice."

He shakes his head to remove the disturbing mental image of Russia dragging Iceland around by the arm to show off the improvement that his oh so generous loan would bring.

"Do you need anything?" he asks, steering the topic and his thoughts away from Russia, "While I'm here."

"The best cold remedy you can make," Iceland replies, "Served in the Holy Grail to make sure it works."

"I don't have the Holy Grail," Lithuania says, "But I can do chicken soup in the deepest bowl you have, if that's a good alternative."

Iceland sits up so Lithuania can stand before curling up against the cushions, "Some whiskey would be good too. You know, mixed in with some tea or something."

"You're seventeen," Lithuania says, "You can't buy alcohol."

Iceland cracks one eye open and gives him an exasperated look, "You really need to learn when someone's joking, Toris."


	4. Chapter 4

_February 2011_

It's been twenty years. Twenty years since Lithuania was recognised by Iceland as independent; twenty years since that first visit in post-Soviet Vilnius. Twenty years of friendship and Lithuania is still grateful. He's grateful that Iceland not only recognised his independence but also extended friendship to him.

Vilnius has changed in the past twenty years. It's gone from being a dot on a Soviet map to being a proper capitol. People have brightened. There's still some traces of the Soviets, most obvious being the remaining _Khrushchyovka _buildings. But traces Lithuania can deal with.

He turns the corner into Islandijos Street. A couple of students look up from their table outside of a café, the alcove behind them spray painted. Lithuania smiles but they just roll their eyes and turn back to their coffee.

'_Kids today,'_ he can't help but think.

Iceland's leaning against a wall nearby. He looks up when he hears Lithuania approach.

"You named a street after me," he says, nodding towards the street sign and smirks, "You're adorable."

"You're younger than me," Lithuania reminds him with a tweak of his bangs, "So that means you're the adorable one yes?"

Iceland bats his hand away but he doesn't protest when Lithuania puts a tentative arm around his shoulders. The sun filters weakly through the grey winter clouds and casts a snowy shine across Iceland's hair. The pair of them head along the street, breath puffing in front of them.

"So, you named a street after me _and _you're giving me a shiny new plaque," Iceland muses, "I mean that much to you, huh?"

"Of course you do," Lithuania says, "Did you doubt it?"

"Mm, not really." Iceland pinches Lithuania's side, just beneath his ribs, "I know I'm your very special friend." He gives Lithuania a sideways glance, "More special than America?"

"Different kinds of special," Lithuania says, "I won't compare you."

Iceland falls silent as they approach where their officials are waiting for them up ahead. Lithuania pulls him to a stop a short way off and nods. His arm slips down from Iceland's shoulders down to rest around his waist. Iceland smirks and gently lifts Lithuania's hand up, so it rests higher away from his hips.

"There," he says, "Norway will see this. He might get huffy if he thinks you're putting your hands too low."

"You're an independent Nation now," Lithuania points out, "You can have people's hands as low as you like."

Iceland leans in and mutters as the two ministers unveil the plaque, "I'm still seventeen."

Lithuania smiles, "I'm only nineteen."

Up ahead, Lithuania's foreign minister was talking about how Iceland's support for Lithuania had meant more than international recognition; something about moral support and a statement to the world about a good friend for Lithuania.

"You know, you have my full support for the EU bid," Lithuania leant in to murmur, "And all those negotiations it comes with."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know," Lithuania looks up to see the two foreign ministers shaking hands under the unveiled plaque, cameras flashing, "But consider it a small way of saying thanks."

"I think that time you made me chicken soup was a way of saying thanks," Iceland says, "Especially with how awful my nose was."

"The bond of Lithuania and Iceland that was established twenty years ago will never be broken. Lithuania will always have a place in our hearts," Iceland's minister says. Lithuania cocks an eyebrow.

"You're my special friend too," Iceland says, glancing away.

"Even more special then…Hong Kong?" Lithuania has to fish for another Nation, especially one near to Iceland's age.

"I met him, like, once," Iceland says, "Doesn't measure up. Though he did make an impression. We should get together again, actually."

"Can't compare to our twenty years?"

Iceland knocks his knuckles against Lithuania's, "Can't compare to our twenty years." He pauses, "If only we had glasses; we could make a toast."

"I can't drink anymore," Lithuania says, "We can have an imaginary toast. To another twenty years?"

Iceland grins and it's bright as the sun on snow, "To another twenty years."

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><p><em>To Iceland<em>

_The country that fearlessly first recognised the restoration of the independent Lithuanian state on 11__th__ February 1991_

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><p><strong>AN. And we're done. Thank you much for reading!**


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